


Like Every Wish I Ever Made Came True

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: All The Love, Angsty Schmoop, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Butt Plugs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, James having self-doubt, Love, M/M, Problem-Solving, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, worried!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt over at the Spring McFassy Fest: <i>so we all know about the generous size of Michael’s, er, Masculine Attribute, yes? So it’s James’s first time with a man, and so they have to take things considerably slowly, building up over days or weeks in order for this to work; James being frustrated with himself, Michael not allowing them to rush things so as not to hurt James, and if there can be buttplugs in the mix, prompter offers utmost love.</i> I have attempted to manage all these things!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Every Wish I Ever Made Came True

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lyrics from The Ataris’ “I.O.U. One Galaxy”, this time. Though it was almost New Found Glory's "Hold My Hand".

_the stars are out tonight_   
_and you're the brightest one shining in my sky_   
_it's like every wish I ever made came true_   
_the day I woke up lying next to you_   
_and will you be my best friend_   
_if I offer you my heart_   
_'cause it's already yours.._

  
James is quieter than most people think.

Not always, of course. Often he’s just as outgoing, as extroverted, as enthusiastic, as he seems on camera. He’s thoroughly willing to join in—or instigate—the weekly pranks involving Matthew’s directorial paraphernalia. And when he laughs, in that magnificent Scottish rumble, the whole world takes notice and gets a little brighter in response.

But James isn’t that person all the time. He’s happiest at home, in fact. Curled up on a cozy sofa with the cushions worn into just the right spot, filling in a Sudoku puzzle or reading his latest scripts or flipping on—and occasionally quoting lines along with—classic Star Trek episodes. And Michael, whose idea of an enjoyable Saturday night has previously involved multiple pubs and quite a lot of gin, has recently found himself spending a night baking chocolate-chip cookies and watching _The Wrath of Khan_ and acquiring a blanket upon discovering James’s icy feet, and then making out with James beneath said blanket, like excited teenagers.

Despite the disapproving presence of William Shatner, it'd been pretty much the best night of his life. Well, that, or every other night he gets to spend with James, on set or out at dinner or in bed, back at the hotel, where they inevitably end.

He’d thought, at first, that James would be talkative in bed. And that’s true, in a way. James isn’t shy about wanting to discover Michael’s preferences, or offering suggestions, or employing that skillful tongue in new and creative directions.

But he’s figured out, by now, that the talking is—although genuine—a distraction. If James is talking, asking what Michael wants, filling up all the silences with words, then James is thinking. Trying too hard. And the effort, the desire to make everything good, is sincere. It always is. But it also means James isn’t enjoying himself, or at least not enjoying himself enough, not the way that Michael wants to see him, losing all that anxiety and consideration and just _being_ , blissfully euphoric.

He’d learned the difference the first time he’d dropped to his knees and taken James into his mouth, licking, sucking, caressing, and James had gasped and those eyes had gone enormous, wordless and elemental as the heartbeat of the sea. He’d paused, suddenly worried, to ask, and James’d nodded, emphatically—yes, everything’s all right, please—and had set a hand on Michael’s head, very lightly, and when Michael’d stroked his tongue over that leaking tip James had gasped again, soundlessly, and come, on the spot, shaking.

He’d asked again, after. James had smiled, a tiny luminous curve of lips, and shrugged, not quite vocal yet but apologetic, and Michael’d shaken his head, wide-eyed, and said, “You’re fucking _beautiful_ , James, I want to see you like that again,” and James had laughed. Not loudly, but happily, astonished, sweet and shy.

The closer James gets to orgasm, the more deeply he’s lost in the moment, the quieter he is. And all the words slow and eventually stop, as if everything he’s feeling, behind blue eyes, can’t be expressed in vowels and consonants.

Michael’s devoted many of their nights, these past few weeks, to making James speechless, in _almost_ every conceivable way.

At the moment, James is being very quiet. He’s lying stretched out across the bed—technically Michael’s bed, since they’re in Michael’s hotel suite, but that distinction’d become unimportant almost instantly, and even more so once James’s sweaters started appearing in the closet and a blue toothbrush joined Michael’s by the sink—and he’s utterly naked. All the freckles are gleaming in the golden lamplight, and when he blinks those eyelashes sweep up and down like the ebb and flow of tides, and he’s the most exquisite thing Michael’s ever, ever seen.

“James…” He trails one hand over the smooth skin of the closest hip, knowing how close James is from the shivery edge to his breathing. “Can we try something else?”

A nod; James looks up at him, but doesn’t speak, waiting.

Michael breathes in. Gazes at those spectacular eyes. They’re still measuring time in weeks, in days, in brilliant and crystal-bright seconds. He’s been as gentle as he knows how to be, as patient, taking his time.

James has asked, more than once. Because James isn’t all that good at patience, and Michael loves him for that, but James is also a virgin, and Michael loves him for that too, the startling and eager innocence under the teasing façade.

James is perfectly willing to try anything, not afraid of new experiences. James trusts him, in bed and out of it. But James _is_ a virgin, at least with men. And Michael, while not _extremely_ experienced in that regard, at least knows more in comparison.

This first time has to be good. Has to be wonderful. He needs to make sure of that. He’s going to be James’s _first_. And only.

Possibly James recognizes the abruptly possessive expression, because he smiles. Raises his eyebrows: thought you had a plan.

“I do.” He doesn’t move right away, though. There’s one other problem. He won’t call it a small problem, not out of ego, but purely fact.

James isn’t that large a person. And hasn’t ever done this before. Michael, on the other…hand, definitely _is_ more of a large person, in one way. One very specific way.

He knows that James is a virgin, because James has told him so. On their second date, in fact, if one counts dates in terms of stumbling back to each other’s hotel suites post-filming, the fizz of exhaustion and excitement swirling around them, the knowledge of another successful scene and the exhilarating reality of arms around waists and eyes meeting, not wanting to let each other go, not so soon, not yet, not ever.

They’d been sprawled half-naked over James’s bed, which probably wasn’t as excited as they were, lips and tongues and hands delightedly exploring, and he’d been toying with the top button of James’s jeans and wondering whether it’d be too soon to go there, and hoping James wanted him to. Hoping so very badly.

James hadn’t said no, but had pulled his lips away from Michael’s throat long enough to say, “Ah…I should probably…mmm, don’t stop, I didn’t say you should stop…tell you something…I might be sort of a…virgin.”

Michael’d had to stop, at that. Had sat up, and his face must’ve reflected sheer horror, because James sat up too, and reached over and patted him reassuringly on the arm. “Okay, I’m pretty sure, from your expression, that I didn’t mean it the way you’re thinking. I have had sex. I _like_ sex. It’s just only been sex with, um, female people. But I do know where everything theoretically goes, with you…”

“… _theoretically_ , you said. You’ve never—you’ve never done this with men.” The horror’d lessened, but hadn’t gone away. He’d never slept with a virgin. Not unless he could count being one himself and learning new aspects of his sexuality in a rather pathetically flamboyant London nightclub.

“No, I haven’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I do want to. I want you.”

“Are you sure?” The question’d fallen out before he could bite it back. Fortunately, James had laughed. And then leaned over and kissed him, lips determined and passionate and unwavering. “Yes. I was really only telling you so you wouldn’t…I mean, in case you were expecting…it’s probably not going to be amazing, for you, with me, and I—”

“What the _hell_ , James,” Michael’d said, indignantly, and then  pushed him back down into the bed and set about demonstrating just how amazing he thought James was, in every way he knew how.

Every way except one. He’d wanted to, had thought about it—had dreamed about it, even, long before he’d finally figured out that James might reciprocate his interest—but it’d shortly become evident that, although James was completely enthusiastic, his body was less prepared. Michael’d pressed a finger to that tight rim of muscle, asking, and James’d nodded, but even with all the lube in the world that first one hadn’t been anything like easy, and he’d known enough to stop there.

He watches blue eyes, now, as James stretches, catlike, obviously teasing him, cheerful. They’ve done more in the weeks since then, of course. A bit more. Cautiously. Two of Michael’s long fingers, easing their way inside that vulnerable space, where no one else has ever touched James, before. Three, once. The last time, two days ago. James had stayed very still and gazed at him with eyes like thunderclouds, blue-black and electric, and breathed in and out, and collapsed into release at last, to the strokes of Michael’s fingertips inside him.

They’ve had the entire sunshine-filled day off, today. He’s spent most of it touching James. Who doesn’t seem to mind.

This will be round three, of the day. Maybe James is relaxed enough, comfortable enough in all the afterglow and the kisses and the cuddling, for them to attempt something more than mouths and hands and tongues sweeping across skin.

He plucks the lube—they’re almost out, he thinks, surprised, and then has a brief and hard-fought mental debate over whether they should call everything to a halt while he runs out to acquire more, but James is already nodding, looking at him with those shooting-star eyes, cometary blue—off the bedside table.

“You do…you want to, right? You want…me?”

James nods one more time, and then pulls words out of nowhere, from the white cotton bedsheets and the pale topaz light and the evening air. “Yes, I want you. Please. I love you.”

And Michael breathes out, and spills lube over his fingers, over James, and does everything he thinks might help, one finger, two, three, gingerly, feeling those muscles quiver and resist and ultimately yield to the invasion. James gasps and shivers at each new sensation, moving freely against the sheets, and Michael thinks he might be in love with white cotton, too, with the way it frames copper-oak hair and cinnamon-drop freckles and endless blue eyes.

He knows he’s larger than three fingers, even his own fingers, but surely he’s not that much larger. And James, panting and ecstatic, is irresistible. Waiting becomes, all at once, an impossibility.

“James,” he says, roughly, and James blinks at him, and doesn’t answer, but smiles, after a second. Okay.

When he shifts into position, James reaches for him. Touches him, hands running along his arms, up to his shoulders, back down. As if trying to memorize each muscle, every line.

One small adjustment. So that he’s right there, at that entrance. And then, carefully, one more.

James’s hands tighten on his arms, and the blue eyes go wide, but he nods again, so Michael takes that as encouragement, and continues, filling James up, inch by agonizingly slow inch, with himself.

James doesn’t say anything, doesn’t protest, and he thinks maybe it’ll be okay, maybe he’s done enough, opened James up far enough for him, beforehand.

He moves again, pushing more deeply this time. James makes a noise. Goes completely immobile, in Michael’s arms. Turns his head away.

“James…?”

“I…”

“Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly, the eyes drift back to his. They shine even more like oceans than usual. Wet.

“Is this hurting you?”

A swallow. A tiny lip-lick. Then a nod, as the eyes flick away again, the ocean waves retreating, ashamed.

Fuck, Michael thinks, and lifts himself away, instantly. This process is made easier by the abrupt withering of his arousal, at the sight of James in pain, but it’s still not enough, because James _is_ in pain.

And is looking at him again, in the wake of the withdrawal. Eyes huge, shocked and a little betrayed. Fuck.

“It’s not because I don’t want you! I do want you. But I don’t want to hurt you. We’re not going to do this if it hurts you. All right?”

James shakes his head. Not talking. Any other night, that’d mean intimacy.

Except that’s exactly the problem.

“I’m fine,” James whispers, in all the quiet, after. “I’m fine, I—” But his voice cracks, and Michael thinks but doesn’t say _fuck_ , and holds him, as tightly as he can, and tries as best as he knows how to make everything better, with words, with comforting arms, with his own heartbeat.

After a while—a far too delayed while, as if James isn’t sure the emotion might be allowed—blue eyes well up with tears, and Michael cradles that head against his shoulder and whispers, “I love you, it’s all right, please be all right, what do you need me to do, please,” and hates himself a bit more every time James whispers back, “it’s fine.”

“Please,” he says, into the tangle of hair, “please let me help, I’ll do anything, whatever you want, I can hold you forever if you want that, or I can go make you coffee, or cookies, you were saying this morning that you kind of felt like baking cookies and you don’t have to get up but if you still want them I can—are you smiling? Please say yes.”

This gets a small nod, and a somewhat wider smile, peeking out from behind the tears. Sunlight through rain.

“I love you,” Michael tries, one more time, and this time James kisses him, feather-light lips over Michael’s collarbone.

“I know. I love you, too. Cookies?”

“You did say you wanted them. Earlier.”

“I suppose I did…maybe yes, then. But not yet. Right now I want you to hold me.”

“I can do that.”

“You feel good. Warm.”

“Good…But it wasn’t, was it? Good, I mean. For you. I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s—”

“You’re not allowed to say the word fine until you can look at me when you do.”

James sighs. Kisses him again, on the lips this time. “It’s better. Now. You don’t have to apologize. We both wanted to. And that wasn’t really why—it doesn’t hurt that much. Not anymore. And you did stop, as soon as I told you. Thank you.”

“Don’t say thank you, either. That wasn’t why what?”

“Why I was…” A shrug, or an attempt at one; Michael’s holding him too closely for much range of motion. “All the crying. All over you. I’m sorry.”

“No.” He runs a hand over James’s back, feeling cold freckles warm up beneath his hand. “If that wasn’t why, then what was?”

“I…you’ll tell me it’s stupid and I know it is, and I’m not—”

“You’re not what? You can tell me anything, you know that. I’m not going anywhere.” He touches one cheek, this time. Traces his thumb over unfairly long eyelashes, wiping away the remainders of tears. “Promise.”

James shifts positions, against him, then settles back down. Turns his head, kisses Michael’s hand, an openmouthed breath of air over skin. “All right, well…I did warn you. Ages ago. That I wasn’t—that this wouldn’t be good for you. That I wouldn’t be good, in bed, for you. And I—well, I wasn’t wrong, was I.” The last words come out sharply edged, as though James has meant them to be flippant but instead they’ve turned into despair and glass.

They slice through the night, on the way out. Leave all the peacefulness in ribbons.

“No,” Michael manages, after too many frozen heartbeats. “No, James, that’s not—you _are_ wrong. I swear. You—this isn’t your fault, it’s not, I knew this was your first time and I should’ve bought more lube and I’m just, I don’t know, disproportionate or something, it’s my fault, I’m sorry, and you’re fantastic, and I love you. I do. Always.”

There’s a pause. It creaks like cracking ice, in the desolate expanse of the hotel bedroom.

“…disproportionate? Seriously?”

“Um…or something. I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s not your fault. I mean this…the sex…not working. And you are not disproportionate. I like your proportions. All your proportions.”

“I like yours, too.” He squeezes James a little more, but maybe that wasn’t the right reply, because the blue eyes aren’t meeting his yet.

After a second James says, in the direction of the nearest pillow, “My, um, proportions don’t seem to be liking us. Or us having sex, at least.”

The pillow, though it gazes back in eyeless sympathy, doesn’t reply, so Michael has to. It’s difficult to find words, to answer the bitter flavor of self-reproach lacing that Scottish-whisky tone, but he needs to say something, needs to fix this, so he tries, and hopes that somehow some collection of syllables will be enough.

“I love you. Regardless of what your proportions think. I love everything about you. I love that you’re a virgin—”

“You do? Right now? Because I’m not sure I do.”

“—yes, I do, because you know what that means?” James does look at him, at the question. That’s a good sign. Has to be. “It means that this, what we’re doing, is only ever going to be about me and you. About us. And that’s—if it’s not perfect right away, that’s okay, we can try again, we can work on making it better. But it’s never not going to be amazing. You trusting me, with this…I’m so fucking honored to be here with you. Every day. Does that—is this helping, at all?”

And James says, through laughter, through tears, through all the emotions that Michael can feel welling up in his own heart, “Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Yes to that too. To trying again. To everything. Even the cookies. Can they be oatmeal raisin?”

“James,” Michael says, “they can be anything you want,” and then thinks about that for a second, and has to add, “I might need to go buy raisins.” And James laughs, unadulterated happiness this time, and holds him in return, in the wrinkled disaster of the approving sheets, under the pale gold of the hotel-room lights.

 

The second time, several days on, doesn’t go even as well as the first.

James is obviously trying, and determined to be brave about it. But the memory of pain plainly lingers, in too-tight muscles, in the tension that won’t let him relax at Michael’s touch, even the gentlest press of fingertips to that spot. James doesn’t ask that they stop, and even attempts to say everything’s fine, but Michael can see all the resolution in his face, and it’s heartbreaking.

After a few minutes, it becomes apparent that nothing’s working; Michael sighs, shakes his head, stops. “We can try again later, okay? Do something else for now?”

No answer.  That’s not good, coming from James. Not now.

“Hey.” He touches the closest cheek, slips fingers under that pointed chin, tries to get those eyes to look at him. James pulls away, staring at the crooked mound of pillows near the headboard. All the bedding sits there mutely, like an accusation, in the night.

“Are you…angry with me? It’s all right if you are, I know I should be making this better for you and I’m so sorry—”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“Then…” He can barely get the next words out. “Did I…was it…did it hurt you that much, the first time we…tried? Or this time?”

“What—no! No, you didn’t. And absolutely not this time.” James actually does meet his eyes, along with the words. The infinite blue is surprised, and sincere, and something else Michael can’t quite define. “It’s not your fault. And you didn’t hurt me. I promise.”

“Then can I hold you?”

“Yes.” James lets himself be folded up in Michael’s arms. Some of the strain eases, almost imperceptibly. It helps, but not enough.

Voice now muffled by a shoulder, James offers, “It’s me. My fault. I’m sorry.”

“What? Of course it’s not, you aren’t—”

“All right, maybe not the first time. But this time…right now…I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself. Because I can’t—because I’m not—I don’t know what to do and I’m sorry.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Michael says, a little too ferociously, and kisses him: the lips, the forehead, the nose, which makes James roll his eyes, which is good, because if James is annoyed with him then James isn’t questioning his own self-worth. “We can figure this out. Together. There must be something we can do. We have the internet. And a morning off, tomorrow. Okay?”

“You…I…I don’t know if I trust you on the internet. The last time you borrowed my laptop we ended up with six Magneto action figures and a plush Mr Tumnus doll.”

“At least I gave you one of the action figures.”

“So selfless,” James says, but he’s half-smiling, now. “You’re my favorite boyfriend.”

“I’m your only boyfriend. Ever.”

“And I love you. You know that, right? Terrible sex and action figures and all. You make me smile, and I love you.”

“I know,” Michael says, and realizes that he’s smiling back, because he does know: James loves him. They’re in love. “I love you, too.”

 

The results of Michael’s online shopping arrive two evenings later, delivered to their hotel and then to their room by a bellboy who looks rather disappointed when James smiles sweetly and doesn’t open the package in his presence. James brings the box into the bedroom, rips open packing tape, and then they _both_ end up silent, for a few minutes. Staring.

“Those are…those very definitely are…those.”

“You can say buttplug, James.”

“I’m really not sure I can. Why’s that one tiny?”

“Um…I thought maybe we could start there? And kind of…work up to things?”

“…oh. Like training wheels.”

“And now I’ll never look at bicycles the same way again. _Is_ this all right? You sound—you don’t have to do this. If you don’t want to.”

“No, I want to. I’m just glad you don’t want me to start with _this_ one. I think this is larger than you. Or is there something I don’t know about your plans for me, because—”

“Can you take this seriously, please?”

James studies the colorful display again. “Oh, I am. Um…that one’s purple.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“No, you’re not. It’s okay, it kind of makes them more friendly. Like rainbows.”

Only James would contemplate an array of sex toys, spread out across their bed, and come up with friendly rainbows. Just one more reason Michael loves him, of course. One among so many.

“Why’re you grinning at me?”

“I can’t grin at you?”

“Not like that, not when I’m surrounded by…these. Are we starting this tonight?”

“You’re going to have to say the word eventually. Say buttplug, James.”

“No!” James says, and then starts laughing, and Michael’s forced to throw a pillow at him as a result. James ducks, grabs his own, retaliates, and the air ends up filled with flying feather-stuffed fluffiness and laughter, and Michael thinks again about love, and how lucky he is, even as James manages to hit him in the stomach.

“Ow!”

“Oh, that didn’t really hurt, did it? I’m sorry—”

“Yes,” Michael says, exaggeratedly pathetic, “terribly, James, you have superhuman strength and an unnatural rapport with our pillows,” and then, when James peeks at him with a hint of real concern beneath the amusement, takes advantage of the unguarded moment to flip them both over.

James smiles up at him. Doesn’t bother trying to wiggle free. Just stays put, hands relaxing into Michael’s grip.

“I love you,” Michael informs him, because it’s true.

“Oh, I know. I can tell.” Punctuated by deliberate hip shifting. Michael tightens his hold, and James keeps smiling. “Still not going to say it, though.”

“Yes, you are. At some point. In answer to your other question, though…not tonight. I want to—I want us both to be awake, when we try this. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, then.” James licks his lips. “And if we’re not doing that tonight…are we doing other things? Maybe? Please?”

“We’re definitely doing other things.” Michael leans down to kiss him, where the traces of wetness linger from that pink tongue. “As soon as you get the friendly rainbow buttplugs off the bed.”

“Me,” James says, “ _you_ bought them, and anyway I can’t go anywhere with you sitting on me, and I didn’t mean you should get up!”

“Oh, I already am.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.” But James twists around in the sheets, displaying impressive flexibility, and scoops every last inch of plastic back into the box, and then tosses it to the floor, and only blushes a tiny bit while he does so.

“Better?”

“And get naked.”

“Much better,” James agrees, and Michael puts his hands back on that cheerful skin, catching all the scattered-dandelion freckles, and James makes good use of that flexibility, and says “Yes,” when Michael follows the freckles up one thigh, and then after a while stops saying anything at all.

 

Day two starts with Michael waking up, naked, with an equally naked James in his arms. The morning is clear and bright and sun-drenched, and James’s hair is busy making their pillows smell like apple shampoo. When Michael nudges him slightly, because James never hears the first ring of the alarm and generally relies on Michael to coax him out of bed, he makes a sad little noise and buries his face more deeply into Michael’s neck.

Michael kisses him, says, “I can’t make you coffee if you don’t let me get up,” and thinks, simply, I love this man.

He does. And James loves him. That thought’s more brilliant than the sun, outside, and it sparkles through him, and the sleepy bed, and the blandness of the hotel furniture, and makes the whole world new.

“Coffee,” James yawns, into his shoulder.

“Yes. Coffee. I’ll be right back, okay?” On the way to the suite’s kitchenette, he glances back, knowing exactly what he’ll see and not being disappointed: James reaching over, not opening his eyes, and collecting Michael’s pillow to cling to and snuggling back down. That sight, like the coffee, happens every morning, too.

By the time he gets back with a steam-covered mug, James has managed to open his eyes, though he’s still considering the world as if suspicious of its motives in producing early mornings.

“Here.”

“Mmm…”

“They left script changes under our door last night. Here’re yours. You get to tackle me, on the beach.”

“Coffee yes. You yes. I love you. I’m doing what to you on the beach?”

“You can read it for yourself in a minute. I think someone’s having fun with us.”

“Probably they are, but do you actually mind? Also, are we up earlier than usual? Or am I just very much not awake, yet?”

“Not at all. I’m planning to have fun letting you tackle me too. And yes, we are, because we’re doing something this morning, remember?”

“We are?”

Most of the time, baffled James is adorable. Michael firmly believes this. Occasionally, however, it’d be nice if coherent conversations could happen in the morning.

Patiently, he tries, “You said you’d wear something…?”

“Oh. That. Those. Is there caramel in this?”

“…what?”

“The coffee?”

“Oh. Um, yes. And vanilla. You do still want to do this, right?” And then he holds his breath.

“I love you. Not only because you make me delicious coffee. Yes, all right, I’m awake, and yes, we can do this. How…”

“Stay here,” Michael tells him, and dives for the box, and the largest bottle of lube he’d been able to find.

“Where’d we get that?”

“Our prop department uses it to make things shiny. Apparently it’s cheap in large quantities—stop laughing!”

“You want me to think about our prop department at a time like this?”

“I do not,” Michael retorts, promptly, “I want you to think about _me_ ,” and taps his fingers, pointedly, on those perfectly freckled curves. James moves his legs without being asked, parting them, letting Michael explore.

“You’ve never minded my fingers…”

“Other parts of you’re a bit bigger than your fingers.” But James sighs, a sound almost like relief, as the first one presses forward, glides into him, motion smooth and slippery. The sun peers in from the edges of the window, and sends a streak of light over the closest hip. It enjoys touching James, too.

“More?”

“Mmm-hmm…”

Two fingers, steadily coaxing muscles through the brief discomfort. They’ve done this much before, of course. James is fine with this. More than fine. But Michael can’t help the thought that scampers across his mind, the memory of James flinching, looking away, in pain.

“Michael?” Oh. He’s stopped moving. Of course James is worried. “Everything all right?”

“I…yes. Sorry. Are you—”

“I’m fantastic.” James smiles at him, head tipped at an improbable angle so that seawater eyes can connect with his. “Go on.”

One more finger, slowly. James is breathing more rapidly, and the muscles flutter tightly around the penetration, but no objections are forthcoming, yet. And James is relaxed, comfortable and sleep-warmed and trusting him.

“Okay. Okay. Tell me if this isn’t—if you’re uncomfortable, all right?” At the nod, he uses his other hand to find the small blue bit of plastic. It looks so innocuous, on his palm. And not very big at all. Certainly nowhere near his own size.

He slides his own hand away and enters James with that plastic hardness, inch by inch. Notices that he can’t hear James breathing anymore. Hesitates. “Still all right?”

“Yes…in fact, very all right…I’m…I think I could…you’re going to have to touch me somewhere else, too, after this. If you don’t mind.”

Michael might’ve snorted out loud. As if he’d ever mind.

“Sorry, was that a word?”

“Not really. You think I’d say no, to that?” He shifts positions. Leans over James, enough that all the evidence of how much he would not mind is palpably obvious. “You mean it, right? This is good, for you?”

“Michael,” James says, and the desperation in that Scottish-velvet voice is an answer in itself, and Michael pushes that last inch deeper and feels the hardness sink home.

James gasps. But it’s a sound of pleasure. And when Michael grabs him and tugs him over onto his back, freckled arms reach up in response, beckoning, asking for closeness. Michael, and that stray beam of sunlight, are more than happy to oblige, and when they come it’s in unison, Michael’s hand wrapped around both their cocks, heat and sweat and everything else mingling together.

“So,” James says, into the sunbeam, “I think we might need to shower again.”

“I think I’m glad we woke up early for this.”

“For once,” James says, laughing, “so am I.”

Michael watches him all day, for signs of discomfort or anxiety or unease. Holds him, while they lie in sunbaked sand, and panics inwardly with each visible tear that falls from blue eyes, until the cameras stop rolling and James kisses him and murmurs, breath incontrovertibly warm against his ear, that the tears aren’t real.

In the background some of the crew whistle at them, and Kevin makes suggestions about charging admission, and Jennifer and Lucas begin debating appropriate ticket prices while Zoe says she’d rather the show stay free, and Michael ignores them all and kisses James, under the tropical sky, again.

Later, James stretches out on the bed. Lets Michael remove the intruding hardness, inside him. They both breathe out, with the absence; Michael trails a hand over his hip, up to a shoulder blade, back down. “Not bad?”

“No. Kind of a long day—I think I’m just not used to it being, um, constantly there—but nothing hurts. We could…try a size bigger. Is the orange one bigger? I like orange.”

“It is,” Michael says, “if you’re sure,” and James nods, and curls up into his arms, heedless of the sand that tumbles out of his hair, and Michael means to get them out of the bed and into the shower, and he will, in a minute. But he’s happy. They’re happy. And James has been the one to suggest something bigger.

Day two is a success, he concludes.

 

Day three, or more appropriately night three. It’s a night shoot. The sky is darkly cold and the wind tugs insistently at clothing, and blankets, and James’s hair.

“Right,” Matthew proclaims, “Michael, you need to get into your wetsuit, and James, I’m sorry, just let me know if you get cold, okay? And we’ll pull you out. We have blankets. And we’ll try to make this quick.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“No it isn’t. Tonight I said try. Go dress like a professor, and I’ll meet you two on the boat.”

“It’s a yacht!” someone yells at Matthew, in the distance. “Learn your nautical terms!”

“It goes on the water, doesn’t it? It’s a boat!” Matthew walks off, grumbling something about overzealous prop-masters; Michael looks at James. “Tell _me_ if you’re cold, all right? I know you won’t want to, but please.”

“Same goes for you. You’ll be underwater longer than I will.” They’re walking in unison, now, wandering over to the wardrobe department. “Anyway, you—oh no.”

“What?”

“I can’t do this scene. Not now. I—”

“Why not? What’s wrong?” They’ve stopped moving; Michael puts both hands on James’s shoulders, a little too tightly, concerned. “James?”

“Oh, god,” James says. He’s blushing; the scarlet spreads like a too-early sunrise over all that pale skin, in the night. “It’s not…nothing’s wrong, exactly, but I, um. I’m wearing the, um. Today’s. Still. And if I’m diving into water, and we’re hanging on to each other, and then they pull me _out_ of the water and I’m all wet, and my _clothes_ are all wet, and…”

“Oh. _Oh_. Um…what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know!”

“Okay…” He’s trying to think, too. James stares at him, hopefully, as if Michael might have ever faced this particular situation before. “Okay, so…”

“Guys! Get a move on! We only have a few hours to get this one!”

One of the wardrobe ladies pops out of the trailer. Waves. “Michael, we need you! More specifically, we need you in this wetsuit! Five minutes ago! And also hi James!”

Michael waves, because James does, automatically. “If you—”

“James,” one of the interns chirps, tapping him on the shoulder, “come let us make sure you aren’t going to be pulled underwater by the weight of Charles’s sweaters and drown.”

“That’s not reassuring!”

“Michael, don’t shout at the interns.”

“But—” The wardrobe ladies descend; Michael throws a helpless glance at James, as they carry him off.

He can hear that familiar accent saying, more politely than Michael could’ve managed at that moment, “Steve—it is Steve, right? And how’s the new puppy?—can I have a minute to run to the restroom, before you practice drowning me?” and he hopes frantically that James has something in mind, because he’s not going to be able to help, not with the way four pairs of purposeful eyes’re examining his body and an inadequate-looking wetsuit, on the hangar. The empty fabric looks at him mournfully; Michael sighs, and mutters back, “I know.”

He encounters James again just outside the door. Those expressive eyebrows go up, as James considers his appearance. “Maybe you and I should go scuba diving. Someplace where you can _always_ wear wetsuits.”

“It took five people, including me, to get me into this thing. I don’t think you’d want to share.” And then, because that’s sounding far too ungrateful, “but thank you. And yes to going someplace. With you. And speaking of you…”

James lets out an amused huff of air, not quite a laugh, and fits himself under Michael’s arm, as they start to walk. “Um…if Kevin asks why there’s an orange…one of those…in his toilet, and by that I mean in the toilet tank, we don’t know anything.”

“…what?”

“I sort of panicked!”

“Ah…okay. I’m not criticizing. Only asking.” It’s not as if he’d had a better plan. And it _is_ kind of funny. He spends a minute imagining Kevin’s expression. James smiles a tiny bit, too, likely picturing the same thing.

“Sorry. We probably aren’t ever getting that one back.”

“Not actually the most important part of this scenario. Are you all right? You did say you were panicked, and I know you were in a hurry.” Also, James apparently still can’t say the word buttplug, which is adorable.

“Oh…that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“It should’ve hurt, shouldn’t it? I mean, no, it shouldn’t, that’s not the idea, but…I’d’ve expected it to. But I’m fine. I’d tell you if I wasn’t, but I am.”

“Really?”

“Really,” James says, and leans into his arm a little more, and smiles, and Michael thinks about hope, as the stars come out to twinkle, overhead.

 

Day four involves that purple-hued version after all. James protests, not so much because of the color but because it’s nearly the same size as the departed orange one.

“We can try something else. You know. _More_.”

“You barely even wore yesterday’s. No.”

“The point of this is to help me work up to you, right? Shouldn’t we be…working up?”

“The point of this,” Michael says, standing beside the bed, crumpled sheets forming mountains and valleys between himself and stubborn blue eyes, “is to keep you from being hurt. To keep me from—I never want to hurt you, James, and I already _have_ , and I can’t—” And then he has to stop, because his voice is shaking, alarmingly.

James looks up at him, unspeaking. The bed holds its breath, waiting, fretful.

And then James sighs, exhaling air out into the world, and walks around the suddenly tranquil furniture. Picks up Michael’s hands in both of his, and smiles, lopsidedly brilliant. “All right.”

“…what?”

“All right. Purple. I still think you’re worrying too much, but you’re right about how not-long I wore the other one, and this will make us both feel better. So, yes.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” James says, grinning, “and I love you, now come help me with this, and by help I mean kiss me. A lot.”

Michael laughs, because it’s that or start to cry from sheer relief, and tugs him closer, closing the distance between them, and helps.

On set, Kevin waves at them, bemusedly. “Can I use your restroom?”

“Why?” Michael asks, warily. Not daring to look at James. “Is yours…not working?”

“No, it’s working fine. I’m just trying to give Lucas and Edi some space.”

“…what?”

“Well,” Kevin says thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure Lucas likes orange, so it’s probably them, and I don’t mind if they’re going to use my restroom but they could at least return the favor and clean up while they’re in there. My sink could use some scrubbing. Anyway, thanks!”

Michael does finally look at James’s face, after Kevin’s gone. For a second he’s concerned that James is unable to breathe, and then realizes that that’s because James is laughing, trying and failing to do so soundlessly, and turning pink from all the effort and the embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry…”

“I’m not,” Michael admits, “I want to be there when he asks them about cleaning his sink,” and James gives up on silence and collapses against him, snickering. “Poor Kevin…”

“He’s perfectly fine with it,” Michael says, “you heard him, he’ll probably offer them relationship advice next,” and then starts laughing too, because James still is, leaning against him, fitting perfectly beneath his arm.

James grins, understanding, and the sunlight frolics merrily around them, and all of that giddiness makes up day four.

 

Day five, and James is annoyed with him.

“I was one hundred percent fine with the purple one, you know!”

“No, you weren’t! I saw your expression at the end of the day!” He had.

“Okay, maybe ninety-five percent fine! But it was a long day, and we were sitting down for most of it. Which meant I was sort of…sitting on things.” James rakes a hand through his hair. All the waves stand up, crazily rumpled, after. “Honestly, though. This morning, right now…everything’s good. Nothing hurts. So…”

“Why does this matter to you, so much? We don’t have to push things. We can—you know I love you, James, no matter what—”

“That’s the problem!”

“…what?”

“That,” James says, and glances down, staring at the hotel-neutral carpet as if the blankness might rescue him somehow. “You mean that. You’d love me anyway. Even if we can never have sex.”

“Of course I—”

“But I want to. I want to be able to do this, with you. I don’t want you to have to love me in spite of this, or because you’re being a good sport about it, or—I want you to care. At least a little. It matters to me.”

“Oh,” Michael whispers, once he can talk. “Oh, no, James, I—can I hold you? Please?”

A nearly imperceptible nod; even if it’s not verbal confirmation, he’ll take it. He puts his arms around rigid shoulders. Rubs his hands over James’s back, gently, comprehending all the despair in those compact muscles. Kisses the top of that fluffy-haired head, lips brushing escaping strands; and, after a few seconds, James relaxes, leaning into the embrace.

Better. Not good, not yet. But better. More words, maybe. If he can find adequate ones.

“I do care. I mean….I don’t not care. I would absolutely like to have sex with you. But I care about _you_ , more. I told you yesterday that I don’t want to hurt you. And sometimes I look at you and I—please don’t leave me.” And he hasn’t meant to say those last words, they’ve just hurtled out, escaping into the morning air where they hover, portentously.

James steps back, enough to look him in the eye, genuinely astounded. “What?”

“…nothing?”

“You asked me not to leave you. Michael, you don’t think I would, do you? Ever?”

“No…no, I don’t. Not really. Not—but I did hurt you. And you said you felt like I didn’t care. About something that matters to you. And I love you so much it doesn’t feel real, sometimes, when I wake up in bed next to you, and no one can be this happy, this lucky, it doesn’t happen. Except then you smile at me. So anything that you want, anything we can have, is always going to be perfect. You—are you crying? James—”

“I might be…it’s your fault…you and your bloody eloquence, in the morning, I can barely make sentences and you bring me coffee and you say things like _that_ , and I love you—”

“I love you, too. Come here?”

James nods again, and lets himself be held, and some of the tears find a path down inside the collar of Michael’s shirt. They’re hot. They burn. But it’s a good feeling, in a way. James is here, and present, in his arms.

After a while he offers, thinking out loud, “Maybe we can compromise?” and James breathes in, blinks, tips his head up. “You might have to explain how…”

“One more day. Or two, maybe. We can skip a couple of the sizes, if you want. If you say you can. I’ll believe you, if you tell me nothing hurts. And you’ll tell me if anything does. Fair?”

Blue eyes, still more vivid than usual, color saturated with wetness, ponder that proposal, briefly. Then James smiles. “Yes. Which one are you thinking, today?”

“Um…” He has to pause, to find the box. Doesn’t quite have anything in mind, until he spots one in particular, lying there innocently. Then he very definitely does.

“How do you feel about pink?”

“As a color? Kind of ambivalent. I could probably wear this one, though. It _is_ larger.”

“You said you wanted that.”

“Yes, I did.” Those eyes’re continuing to smile, open and deceptionless, and Michael finds himself smiling in return.

“All right, then. Pink. For today. And then we’ll see. And I love you.”

“Love you,” James says, and when Michael slips it inside him, cautiously, there’s no hint of pain at all in the oceanic gaze. Only conviction, and serenity, and love.

And desire, of course. And Michael catches himself smiling again, as they head out the door. Because he’d had a reason for choosing pink, after all. And James _has_ asked him for more.

He waits until they’re safely on set, ensconced in canvas chairs in the make-up trailer, waiting for their turns. No one’s paying attention to them for the moment, other than the chairs, and Michael inquires, “James?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re wearing this one today.”

“…and suddenly I feel like I should be afraid. Why? What don’t I know?”

“You want to find out?”

“Yes!”

“Now?”

“ _Yes_!”

“All right, then. If you say so.” He grins. Pull the tiny remote out of his pocket. Taps a button.

James lets out an impressively inarticulate noise, and nearly falls out of his chair.

“So does that mean you approve?”

“Oh my god…”

“That’s the lowest setting, too. I can make it vibrate faster. Like this.”

“ _Michael_ ,” James says, and then stops talking, eyes wide, biting into his lip. Shivering everywhere, helplessly, shifting desperately in the fabric of the chair, visibly and undeniably aroused. Michael considers this, though not for long. His brain, which knows that they don’t really have the time to spare before it’s their turn at the mercies of the make-up artists, is being outvoted by every other atom of his body.

James makes another sound, and stares at him beseechingly. And Michael gives in.

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Not just the way it feels. Me doing this to you. Making you want me. In public.” He gets up. Puts a hand on James’s cheek, fingertips sliding across upturned freckles, pausing over parted lips. He can feel James panting, fighting for control.

“I could make you come right here. Now. And you’d love it.” Deep down, he’s shocked—not at James, no, at himself, saying these things, making these demands, words he’d never imagined coming from his mouth—but it’s not a bad feeling. Dark, and hot, and possessive, something primal awakening at the sight of James squirming in ecstasy for him, yes, all of that. But James is whispering yes, now, yes and please and Michael’s name falling from those reddened lips, and that _is_ a yes, because James wants this exactly as much as he does.

He pauses to flip off the switch. James stares at him, ocean-current eyes full of need.

“Up,” Michael says, “we’re not having sex in the make-up trailer, we’re at least making it back to _your_ trailer and the sofa, okay?”

James blinks. Twice. Doesn’t talk.

Michael considers _that_ , too. “You are all right, right? This is…all right?”

This question earns a wide-eyed and decisive nod, and then James slides out of his chair, and as he does Michael puts out a hand and closes it around his wrist, not painfully, but inarguably. James breathes in, and almost loses his balance.

“That too?”

“Yes,” James says, “yes.”

“Yes,” Michael agrees, and pulls them both out into the curious sunlight and across the thankfully short distance to James’s trailer, and gets them inside, and slams the door shut and pushes James up against it, kissing him.

It’s not a tender kiss. It’s forceful and feral and full of want, his tongue invading James’s mouth, claiming him, taking him, and one of his hands is still holding James’s wrist, and he tugs that arm up above all the hair and pins it to the flimsy fake wood of the door.

James gasps, into the kiss, and Michael almost stops, and then James brings his other arm up too and sets it next to Michael’s fingers, and when Michael captures both slim wrists in his James sighs and melts bonelessly against him, held in place by Michael’s body and the plane of the door.

“I think I’m learning new things about you,” Michael tells him, speaking into the curve of James’s throat, the delicate whorl of one ear, “you like this, you want me like this, showing you you’re mine, reminding you…”

James shivers, head to toe. The motion serves as a reminder; Michael smiles. Holds up that remote, in his other hand, making certain James can see. “More?”

A nod, again. And those hips snap upwards, pressing against Michael’s, seeking friction.

“Couch. Naked. Now.” He releases the arms, and steps back, to give James enough room.

James surprises him, though; of course, James can always surprise him. But he’d been expecting James to listen; they both seem to be enjoying that, so far.

And James does listen, to a point. To the point at which he’s naked, all the freckles glinting like unburied treasure, gold in drifts of white sand. He’s not removed _everything_ , obviously. Flashes of pink are visible, when he turns around. Michael licks his lips, watching. Starts to follow.

And then James spins back around. Looks up at him, and smiles, and abruptly Michael’s pants have vanished and James is on the thinly-carpeted trailer floor, on his knees, and doing things with his tongue that make the whole world go electrically bright.

“James,” he manages to say, “wait—you—oh, fuck, you’re amazing—this was about you, I thought—oh _god_ —”

James pauses. Glances up. His lips are wet and sticky and shining, and those eyes glow, blue like superheated flame, like burning stars in the distance, clear and joyful and pure. “Love you.”

“I love you, too—you want—do you want me to—?”

“Yes,” James says, and then slides his mouth back down over Michael’s cock, deeper than before, glorious and erotic and overwhelming and obscene. Michael nearly falls over, catches himself, feels the orgasm building and pooling in his veins, and remembers at the last second that he’s got the remote in his hand, and flicks the vibrator on.

James doesn’t even scream, just stops moving with Michael’s cock resting inside parted lips, caught in place by all the sensation, there on his knees.

“Oh, god,” Michael gets out, “James, I—” and then he’s coming, powerless to hold back, as billowing waves sweep through him and burst into light.

James, trembling, swallows and tries to breathe, can’t quite swallow everything, shuts his eyes. Whiteness streaks his lips, his chin, that graceful throat.

“James,” Michael says, again, once he can talk. His voice is shaking. “You—you—up. Please. Couch. _You_.” And James lets himself be pulled to his feet, not resisting, unbelievably pliant, and eased down onto the accepting furniture.

He whispers something, when Michael kneels there beside him. A word. Two words: love you.

“I love you, too,” Michael breathes, “and this is about you, making you feel good, so we’re going to make you feel good, okay?” A nod; the endless eyes are watching him, trustingly.

“I want you to come like this,” Michael tells him, “just from this, having _this_ inside you…” He nudges, shoving it deeper. Not hard, and not far, but enough to make James cry out, inarticulate. “Because we both know you can. And I want you to think about me there, instead, in you. Filling you up, when I come. And you do want that.” It’s not a question, but James moans “yes” anyway, a word that’s nearly a sob.

“Good.” He rests a hand on the closest hip, over a spray of freckles like gold dust, precious metals flung gleefully out of the heart of the universe at the world’s creation. James closes his eyes, at the weight of Michael’s hand, and those lips move, shaping sounds, begging for more.

James _doesn’t_ talk, in bed. But he is now.

“Are you thinking about me, James? Because I want you to. I have plans for you. I want to watch you come, like this, from my cock, inside you. Not yet, not now, but soon.”

“Please,” James gasps, “please, _please_ , Michael, fuck, yes, I want you, I want you to, everything, yes _please_ ,” and he’s practically babbling, the words tumbling over themselves, unguarded and incoherent, and Michael’s never seen him come apart like this, eyes unfocused and dark with desire, skin flushed, and holy _fuck_ they’re doing this again. And again.

He grins. Sets his other hand on the vibrating base, not pushing, but knowing that James will feel the added heaviness.

“Now,” he says, and James shudders, hips lifting at the command, and stops talking, and comes, cock still untouched, sticky wetness pooling across his stomach.

And then neither of them moves, for a while.

Michael does have the presence of mind to flip off the vibrations, though he doesn’t slide the plastic hardness out. He could, and he thinks about it, but he’s not sure his hands’re all that steady, at the moment.

James isn’t speaking, but he’s not silent, either. Each breath sounds as if it can’t decide whether to be a gasp or a moan, and when Michael kisses those exhausted lips James whimpers, softly, uncontrolled, and clings to him a little more.

“Okay,” Michael murmurs again, gently, and holds him, strokes the hair, rubs hands over trembling freckles. “I love you. And you’re okay. And that was…incredible. I wish you could see what you look like, right now, because you _are_ incredible, and you’re perfect, and I’m pretty sure I’ve just had the best orgasm of my life, and I love you.”

James breathes in, shakily, against his shoulder. “Yes…”

“Yes what? You are all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right…yes, that was incredible…yes, I love you. The…best of your life? We didn’t even—I mean, we still haven’t—sex?”

Michael tries not to laugh. Looks down into blue eyes, as they blink at his, interested and sated and drowsy. “James, we could do this—just this—forever, and I’d be happy. You were…not quiet, this time. I mean, at the end you were, of course, that’s how I know when you—but earlier, you were talking. Saying my name. Was that…good?”

“Extremely good.” This time James is the one who leans up and kisses him. “I honestly didn’t notice I was saying anything at all, you know. I was just listening to you.”

“I think I like you listening to me.”

“I think we ought to do this again. Even after we’re having the sex, I mean.”

“No argument here. Do you want me to…take this out? For you?”

“Um…I could say yes, but…no.”

“No?”

“Well, I have no clue what we’d do with it, for the rest of the day. And we’ve already lost one. Besides…I might kind of like wearing it. For you.”

“Oh, fuck,” Michael says, “you’re wonderful,” and James starts laughing, and Michael can’t regret how late they’re going to be for hair and make-up now, not even when the knocks at the door start meaningfully increasing in volume, because James is laughing.

 

Day six. James looks at him, in the morning, through early mist and cold and happiness, and lifts eloquent eyebrows. An invitation.

“You…you want to. Now.”

“Well…yes, I do. But maybe not now. We have five minutes, before the car turns up, downstairs…”

“And whose fault is that, again? Remind me.”

“Yours.”

“Oh, really? Because you were walking around only wearing a towel. None of that was my fault.”

“Hmm…fair enough. I was actually trying to get you to notice.”

“Oh,” Michael says, earnestly, “I certainly noticed,” and then pushes James down on the bed and tugs those jeans open, revealing enticing hips, and curves, and desire.

And then stops. “You’re not wearing a—you didn’t—”

“I…” James glances away. Then back at him. “Truthfully, I might be…a little sore. From yesterday.”

“Fuck.” He sits up. James glances skyward, presumably asking for help with nonexistent patience, and tries to tug him back down. Michael goes, but only because James is asking. “How sore? Exactly? Did we hurt you? Do you need to stop?”

“Not very, and no, and only for today, I think. I just needed a break; that was kind of intense. Oh—don’t look like that, I liked it, you know I did. Everything. We can do it all again sometime.”

“Not any sometime that’s soon. And also I love you.”

“And I love you.” James has remained lying there amid carelessly flung sheets, hair disheveled, pants still unfastened. He looks entirely sinful, and succulent, and divine.

“So…nothing at all today, then. We’re letting you recover.”

“I—”

“No arguments, James.”

“But—”

“And we decided we liked you listening to me, remember?”

This gets a very complicated expression that seems to involve James weighing the desire to object, the awareness that he might in fact need the day to recuperate, and sudden astonished arousal. The collision of all these emotions keeps him quiet for a minute, and Michael takes advantage of this fact to reach over and gently refasten loosened jeans.

“We’ll get back to things tomorrow, all right? I’m not turning you down. And I’m not leaving you, either.” James does need to be told that, he’s figured out. Aloud, in words, verbal reassurances as well as the physical, as long as those blue eyes remain hesitant, convinced of inadequacy even though that’s untrue. “I want you. And I think this is working, maybe—”

“It is. I can tell.”

“So we’re not going to ruin it now, then. You can be patient.”

“I’m not good at being patient.”

“Shocking,” Michael says, utterly deadpan, and James stares at his face for a second and then gives up and grins. “Okay. Can I have sex with you tomorrow?”

“Um…one more day? In between? So you can sort of…”

“Get used to feeling that, again? Fair enough. But after that…”

“After that,” Michael informs him, “I’m going to tie you to the bed for the entire next day. We even have the day off.”

“…you’re going to what?”

“Figuratively! I meant figuratively!”

“Oh…well…why not literally?”

“You…” Michael can’t find words, faced with _those_ images. That proposition. “You’d…you would let me…you’d want that?”

The blue eyes dance at him, mirthful as the autumn sky, outside. But honest, as well. Truth lurking behind all the playfulness. Audible, in that voice, when James says, “Yes.”

 

Day seven. The color of the day, mutually decided, happens to be green. It’s not the largest of Michael’s rather frantic purchases, but it’s in the top three. Which means it ought to be about the same size as himself, and might even be a bit wider.

James looks a little nervous but resolute, and Michael takes all the time they have to spare that morning, fingers and tongue and mouth coaxing James out of drowsiness and into a drawn-out and quivering orgasm first, leaving him languidly sprawled across the mattress. And when he slides today’s weight inside, James only moans, faintly, into the pillows, and doesn’t flinch.

“All right?”

“Mmm…”

“That’s not a yes, James.”

James turns his head, just enough for Michael to see one eye, still bliss-clouded and blue as sapphires. “Yes.”

Which actually doesn’t make much sense in the context of Michael’s last sentence, but he knows what James means, so they can go with that answer. “Can you sit up? I’m not trying to rush you, or anything, but…”

“…we’re going to be late. I know.” James pushes himself up on an elbow, then higher, then pauses, looking vaguely shocked. “Okay, that’s…noticeable.”

“You don’t have to. We can—you can lie back down and let me take this out and you can—”

“No, I think I…can. Um. It’s going to be an interesting day. We’re back on the beach, right? Doing the earlier bits, just after the crash-landing? Maybe it won’t take that long.”

“Maybe we should’ve picked a different day.”

“Maybe you should stop worrying and kiss me. Mostly we’re just going to run around inside the ruins of a fake plane, anyway, and I’ll be fine.”

“That’s what you think,” Michael mutters, but does as requested, and James smiles at him through the chilly air. “Now find me my pants.”

Michael considers and discards one or two responses, and finally opts for a deliberately meek, “Yes, James,” which gets James to launch a pillow at him, from the bed. “Stop that.”

“Anything you say.”

This earns a noise that’s somewhere between affection and exasperation and contains no words at all, followed by, “Seriously. Please.”

Michael laughs. Comes back over—with James’s clothing in hand—and sits down beside him. “You were kind of giving me orders…”

“I know, I’m sorry, I love you—”

“I don’t mind. I might like you bossy.” True. Certainly right now, when that’s a good indicator of James’s present condition, physically, emotionally. “But you’d rather I give you orders, wouldn’t you? In bed?”

“Um,” James says, blushing a fairly impressive shade of red. “Possibly yes. But not now unless you really want us to be late—”

Michael catches sight of the clock. Swears. Colorfully.

“I did say.”

“Later. Definitely later. James?”

“Yes?”

“When I said anything you want…I did mean that. You know that, right? I love you.”

“Yes,” James says, “you’re my anything, and I love you, too.”

And the day goes well. Very well, in fact. They stumble around in manufactured wreckage and pull each other out of harnesses and into compassionate sunlight, and sand gets into places where sand should never be invited, and hair falls into James’s face, along with a smudge of dirt over one cheekbone that makes him look as if he’s about twelve years old, even as he’s portraying all of Charles’s compassion and leadership and moral certainty with incredible ease.

Michael can’t help staring, but at least he only forgets his own lines once.

Matthew films lots of heroic close-ups, and some action shots, all blurry camera angles and quick changes, and James catches Michael looking at him, through artificial smoke and lighting, and grins.

The only slightly harrowing moment comes when, as they’re getting out of the plane for what has to be the tenth time, Rose trips and falls into James, who completely fails to catch his balance and ends up on the ground, over artistically broken bits of plastic debris. He doesn’t get up right away, and Michael panics.

“James?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m sorry…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry,” Rose is saying, eyes full of concern. “James, you’re not hurt, are you?” Matthew’s heading in their direction, too, and James looks at Michael and whispers “Help me stand up, I’ll tell you in a minute, I’m fine, I swear,” and Michael bites his lip and puts an arm around those shoulders and gets them both back on their feet.

“I’m fine!” James calls to Matthew, who nods, stops walking, and starts waving everyone else back to their places. “You heard him, go on—”

“Really,” James adds, to Rose, who looks unconvinced, but can’t resist those heartfelt blue eyes any more than the rest of them.

After she’s gone, James exhales and leans into Michael’s arm, momentarily, eyes closing.

“You’re not fine. Tell me.”

“I am, I just…sort of…landed wrong. Not even that hard, but…”

“Wrong how?”

“Oh, come on, I’m not going to say it, there’re microphones…you know. _There_. With the—on that spot.”

“Oh,” Michael says, a little weakly, belatedly realizing. “Are you…okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not, it just…it was a surprise. Not a bad one, even. But…”

“Okay. We’re finishing early, all right? Even if we’re not, you and I are.”

“You two! Stop making out on my film set! That’s not part of your tragic divorce!”

“Just because you’re not filming it, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!” James yells in Matthew’s direction, and then stands up on his own a bit more, demonstrating his lack of need for continued assistance. Michael’s arm feels bereft.

But James looks back at him, as they climb back to their respective starting positions. Nods, in agreement, through all the haze in the air. And when they do finish early, he lets Michael hold his hand the entire way back to their hotel.

Even though they’ve paused to change into normal-person clothes, they’re both covered in beach and smoke and mock-jet dust, and the blue eyes’re a little red, and Michael reminds himself to breathe and starts peeling off bits of James’s apparel, carefully.

“I can do that.”

“I know you can, but…I want to. Please.”

“All right, if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll never complain about you undressing me.”

“I like undressing you.” He’s gotten James mostly naked, now, standing there under the kindly glow of their bedroom lights, flipped on in contrast to the last rays of the setting sun. The sky shimmers in improbable fuchsia and daffodil, adding fairy-tale color to the world.

But there’s still a streak of dust across the freckles, smoke in all that hair, and James had needed his support, earlier. Michael’s hands shake, one quick tremor, with the memory, and he tells them not to but that doesn’t help, at least not until James collects them into his own.

“I’m fine. I told you. Trust me, all right?”

“I do. I promise I do. I just—you were hurt, or you could’ve been hurt, and I don’t want you to be. Ever. Can I take this out, for you? And we can shower?”

“I do like the idea of us showering.” James doesn’t argue when Michael walks him over to the bed, though he does murmur, to the pristine sheets, “sorry about the sand…”

“Oh. Um…”

“I can just kind of bend over. Like this.”

Michael means to answer, wants to, but some vital piece of his brain short-circuits at the sight of James leaning over the bed, hands flat on the unprotesting comforter, legs apart and revealing that most intimate space, tender and, currently, so full and stretched. For him.

James twists around to gaze at him, eyelashes sweeping down and up like leaves in a gale. “Were you planning to help…?”

“I—yes. Sorry. Here.” He finds their lube, first. Traces wetness around the edges, making movement—hopefully—easier. “Ready?”

“Mmm-hmm…”

When he tugs, the length of it slides out, body-warm and sleek and scandalous, and his hands shake again, but for a different reason. No, he tells them. Shower. He needs to hold James, under hot water, and James probably needs to recover from that afternoon and won’t be in the mood for anything more anyway.

Self-control hovers at the limits of his strength, more so when James moans softly with the abrupt emptiness, and the sound echoes in the sheets, decadent and luxurious.

“Shower,” Michael proclaims, desperately, and gathers James up from the bed and whisks him off to the bathroom, where he can alleviate some of his desire by channeling it into soap and water and busy hands, washing away all the reminders of smoke and dirt and worry.

The tension flows away down the drain, and James’s skin turns pink and white and cinnamon and gold beneath his fingers, freckles flirting with apple-scented steam. And the world resumes rotating, finally, releasing the breath it’s been holding since James’d landed on the ground.

After the shower, he’s scrubbing at his hair with the towel, being thankful it’s short and will dry fast and absentmindedly wondering how James manages, when the object of his thoughts hangs up his own towel, eyes Michael thoughtfully, and then steps closer, sliding a hand over Michael’s hip.

“You look delicious. All wet and naked.”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Even more so. James, standing there flushed and clean and happy, a few stray water-droplets sparkling in his eyelashes and decorating all the hair, looks positively edible, all ginger and cream and temptingly molten eyes.

“I like your expression. What’re you thinking?”

“How much I’d like to taste you, right now. Can I?”

“As if I’d say no. But, um…if you want to…we could do other things. More. We could do more.”

Michael, who’s been focusing on that tantalizing skin and contemplating what sort of pastry that’d be and whether James might let him lick icing off of the freckles someday, needs a moment to process those last words. And then stares.

“You…you want to…now?”

“Um…yes? If you want to? I do. Want you, I mean. And I’m pretty sure it’ll be all right, this time. We’ll be all right.”

“I do want to. I incredibly want to. Pretty sure?”

“Very sure, then. That one…today’s…that didn’t hurt at all.”

“At _all_?”

“Well…only for a second. _That_ second. But that was honestly more me being startled, not anything bad. So…”

“So…yes?”

“Yes!”

“Oh, fuck,” Michael says, “yes,” and James starts laughing, and the amusement floats up into ocean-wave eyes and stays there, even after they tumble into bed, arms and legs wrapped around each other, Michael’s hands and lips running over every inch of delectable skin, unable to stay still.

He needs to taste all of James. To have all of James. Who, from the way he responds, is equally desperate to be had.

He has to lunge over the bed, awkward and not giving a damn, to grab the bottle of lube. James watches him move, and smiles, when he comes back. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He eases James’s legs, always so unexpectedly long for someone that size, apart. Lets one finger drift upwards. Finds that hidden vulnerable space. James shuts his eyes, but for less than a second, then opens them again. The blue’s as eager and lucent as the emerging moon, outside.

One finger. Two. Easy. So much more easy than he’d expected. James lies there smiling faintly, calm and languorous and compliant, muscles loosened and warm from the lingering heat of the shower.

“Are you going to do something, sometime tonight, or only sit there and stare at me?”

“I’m appreciating you. I love you. More?”

“Mmm…yes.” When Michael kisses him, James smiles more widely; when one more well-lubricated finger presses in beside the first two, James moans. Michael can taste the sound. It echoes through his entire body.

The legs fall further open, without coaxing, without question. James wants him. That’s incredible.

Of course, the question never has been whether James _wants_ him.

He takes a deep breath. “Can I—?”

James gazes at him, and says, a little dreamily, distracted by pleasure, “Yes.”

“Okay.”

He spills extra slickness over himself, over James, anyway. Over the sheets, too, in his desperate need to be gentle, but they don’t seem to care. If anything, they encourage him.

So do those exceptional eyes, turned as smoky blue and welcoming as a summer night. So Michael settles himself into place, resting right there at that delicate entrance. Then inches forward.

James doesn’t say anything, but the eyes go enormous, and even darker, and after a second Michael feels him breathe, in and out. At least one of them is.

“James,” he gets out, into the silence.

A smile, again. And expressive hands reach for him, and curl around his shoulders, and ask him wordlessly to come closer.

He’s been holding up his own weight, arms braced on the bed, afraid to put any unneeded pressure on James. Who evidently disagrees, because, very purposefully, one long leg slides up and wraps around Michael’s waist, and those hands tighten on his biceps, and the eyes, when Michael looks into them, are shimmering brightly, but not with tears. Only with love.

James says, out loud, “More?” as if he thinks that Michael might need audible confirmation, and Michael hasn’t understood until then just how badly he _had_ , but the word sinks into his bruised heart and soothes away all those aching places, leaving that wounded organ whole again. He breathes back, “James, _yes_ , I love you,” and James murmurs “I love you too, now move,” and Michael laughs, helplessly.

All at once the world is wonderful. Unbelievably glorious, all around them. Including the rather sticky sheets.

Deeper. Nearly all of him, now, sheathed inside James. He pauses, meaning to ask, but realizes he doesn’t need to. He can tell.

So he pushes in one more time, that final inch, and James gasps and clings to him and whispers his name, but it’s a _good_ sound, he knows it is, and he pulls back and then in again, testing different angles, speeds, roughness, and when he finds one certain spot James says “Oh—” and tenses all over, involuntarily.

“Good?”

“Michael—”

“That?”

“Yes—!”

“Good,” Michael agrees, and then forgets how to talk, watching blue eyes fall shut in ecstasy, feeling that body tremble and go rigid around him. For him. James is his. Has never done this, has never felt this, with anyone else.

He is James’s first, now. In reality, this time. Incontrovertible as the moans and whimpers of pleasure pouring from those lips, red where James occasionally tries to bite the sounds into containment. Michael doesn’t want him to contain anything, wants all of him, and leans down and kisses the lips until all the noises turn into pants of need.

“James,” he whispers, “I want you to, I want to see you come for me,” and James shivers, body arching up into his, at the words. “Yes…”

Michael runs one hand over that inviting hardness, all the evidence of James wanting him, caught between them, leaking messily onto their bodies. “I said I’d make you come from me inside you. _Only_ from me inside you. Do you remember that?”

“Oh god—”

“I think I want you to do that now.” He lifts his hand away, though not far, and catches James’s other leg with his spare hand, fits it over his shoulder, and thrusts, into that spot, the one that’s been making James cry out in bliss.

This time, at the peak, James practically screams. And those muscles tighten, impossibly, everywhere, and James comes for him, comes apart around his cock and to the sound of his voice, and Michael can’t resist touching him after all, one stroke at the end, needing to feel James erupt in every way, and then he’s there too, orgasm flooding his body and the sensation of James’s euphoria tingling through his hand.

They both end up quiet, in the aftermath.

Michael drops his head to rest against James’s, and their breathing fades from rapid to slow and falls into unison and fills up the room.

James moves one hand, an almost infinitesimal repositioning over Michael’s back, and Michael finds himself moving, too, lips drifting over James’s cheek, brushing the line of that graceful jaw, nuzzling into the soft skin of James’s throat. James sighs, and tips his head, offering easier access, so Michael kisses him everywhere, lightly, undemanding, reverent.

“I love you,” he says, breathing the words to James’s temple, the corner of one closed eye and tangled eyelashes, and James smiles.  He asks the fragile shape of one ear, “All right?” and this time gets a nod, and the hands play symphonies across his back again. When James says, softly, “I feel wonderful,” the words, and the wonder, reverberate through Michael’s bones.

He can feel himself slipping, softening, inside James, and though he doesn’t want to he makes himself sit up a little. James lets out an inquisitive, half-complaining sound, and Michael kisses him again for that. “I know. I just have to—I should—tell me if this hurts, please? If anything hurts?”

James opens his eyes, at last. And the blue is so intense, so clear, that it's almost painful; Michael’s heart stutters, in his chest, for a moment. “I will. I promise. But nothing does.”

“Are you—”

“—sure? Very sure.” The smile’s floating around the edges of those lips, now. Even more visible in the eyes, lighting up the ocean depths. “You can move.”

And Michael nods, and remembers that, yes, he _can_ do things, and moves.

After, he puts both arms around James. Who nestles contentedly into the embrace, and puts his head on Michael’s shoulder, lazy and satisfied.

“Michael?”

“I love you. Was that—is everything—are you—”

“I love you, too. I think…I might also love having sex with you. Can we do that again?”

“Yes. Not now.” He could—certain aspects of his anatomy are valiantly attempting to suggest that he could, in the wake of that idea—but it’d be too soon. They can wait. They have an entire future, to do those things.

“In the morning?”

“We’ll see. But you were asking—what do you need?”

“Only you.” James wriggles around, enough to look him in the eye. Sets his chin on Michael’s chest, propped on one hand as if he’s trying to ensure that it won’t hurt. Michael holds onto him more tightly, for that. “I realized something, though. Right now.”

“What?” He runs a hand through James’s hair, toying with unruly strands. “Something good, I hope?”

“Oh yes. You…it’s been…well, happy, um, anniversary. One month anniversary. Today. Tonight, actually. If it’s a month, can that technically be an anniversary, or is there an actual word for—”

“James,” Michael says, and then, “yes,” and then kisses him, because that’s the best way he can think of to stop James contemplating the vagaries of English vocabulary and focus on him.

He stops once he thinks that James is sufficiently speechless again. “I was planning to buy you dinner tomorrow, you know. Anything you want. Because it is our first anniversary, and it is happy.”

“You said first. First implies more.”

“Yes, I did, and yes, it does.”

“Good,” James says, positively, and licks his lips. “Anything I want, you said. Does that include room service?”

“…yes?” Very much yes.

“Though…we could go out _first_. If you were already making plans. I do enjoy seeing you dressed up. Besides, I do have something in mind for me. Something we both might like me to wear.”

“You—”

“Well, I might’ve discovered,” James says, and grins at him, “a newfound appreciation for the color pink.”


End file.
